


Krokodil

by AgeOfAlejandro



Category: Bourne Trilogy (Movies), Star Trek (2009)
Genre: Drama, Drug Dealing, Drug Use, Kidnapping, Theft, Violence, krokodil aka the grossest drug ever, off screen murder
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-10-18
Updated: 2012-02-02
Packaged: 2017-10-26 11:15:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/282407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AgeOfAlejandro/pseuds/AgeOfAlejandro
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Displeased with the Bourne debacle, Kirill's <a href="https://secure.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/en/wiki/Federal_Security_Service_%28Russia%29">FSB</a> superiors order to him to catch an American known as the Krokodil. That American? Is James Tiberius Kirk.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From today's [Daily Urbine post](http://daily-urbine.livejournal.com/97718.html). CPine has played no villains! D: What? FIX THAT NAO, CPINE! So I have, ah, sort of used a Stepfordian mirror!Jim. Kind of. Just play along, yes? Krokodil is essentially the cheapest version of heroin you can get and it's worse than meth in what it does to you ([here's a safe-ish for brain article on krokodil, no pictures](http://www.time.com/time/world/article/0,8599,2078355,00.html)). And I _seriously_ advise against googling krokodil any further. You cannot unsee.

Wastes of oxygen, all of them, Kirill thought as he slipped in the door. The flat was tiny. Not much more than a one-room with a kitchenette and a bathroom, and all the addicts were slouched on the couch, or sprawled on the floor like dolls. They didn't even notice his entrance, making it simple to tie up the scabrous lot of them.

 

He swept the room, searching for any clue that might help find the target of this investigation, finding only the refuse of a group of krokodil addicts - paint thinner, gas, codeine, and the other odds and ends that make up the drug, and a few syringes. A pile of match boxes, scraped of their phosphorous strikepads, sat near Kirill's feet, and few flies buzzed intermittently against the windowpanes overlooking the stupid little town he was currently in. Every sound and sight scratched at his nerves and increased his frustration. _It's a relatively easy case, since you're still recovering from the Bourne case's car wreck. Catch him and bring him back - we'll take it from there._  
Kirill didn't believe that for a second; he'd been healed for months, and he was going to find out who decided chasing after drug producers was a fine thing for a well trained FSB agent - one of the best in Russia - to be doing, and they were going to _suffer._

The woman he was here to see began to shift, pulling him from his thoughts, coming out of her krokodil-induced haze. Her name was Anastasia Trotskova and he was hoping she could restart the increasingly cold trail. That is, if she remembered anything more than the recipe for krokodil and how to speak Russian, which was not necessarily a given.

She studied to room, as if seeing it for the first time, and jumped as much as her bonds allowed when she noticed him.

"I don't have the money," she blurted, eyes saucer-wide. "I - I will, but I don't have it yet."

Lifting an eyebrow, Kirill noted that the other addicts were still out and he stood. "I'm not here for money," he said curtly, striding toward her. "Where is Pavel Checkov?" he asked, picking her up as carefully as possible. The last thing he wanted was for part of her flesh to come off in his hands because he hadn't been careful enough. The one time it had happened had been too much and the feeling of his wet, gangrenous skin coming off in Kirill's hand had lingered for _days._

"W-who?" Trotskova stuttered, radiating nerves as he placed her on the couch. "I don't know who that is."

"Where is Pavel Chekov?" Kirill repeated slowly, catching her eyes.

"I don't know who that is," she insisted, struggling against her bonds.

"I don't believe you," he said coolly. When Trotskova stayed quiet, Kirill stalked toward her, enjoying the way she ineffectually tried to escape his advances. "Where," he repeated as he knelt beside her, "is Pavel Chekov? Small blond man? Belongs to the Krokodil?" When her silence continued, he pulled out a pistol and nuzzled her temple with the long barrel of the silencer; he was pleased when her body stiffened with fear. "I know he was here two days ago. Where is he?"

She was fighting with herself for whatever reason, and Kirill watched her with cool, assessing eyes as the struggle went on. "Petrograd!" she gasped at last. "He said he was going to Petrograd!"

Kirill nodded and wondered what to do with her for a brief moment. He looked up and examined the others, still lost in their hazes from all appearances. He shrugged to himself and moved.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Ment" is Russian slang for "cop"; 600,000 rubles is about $19,000 as per October 20,2011's exchange rate (1 ruble = 0.031661 US dollar), and the Russian slang for what Americans call a tank top/wife beater (a vest for the Brits) makes less sense than "ment" so I, being lazy, am using the American term.

Trotskova's info was correct as it turned out, and Kirill could have caught Chekov if he had not been horribly delayed. Unfortunately, Chekov was long gone by the time he got to the Petrograd, and it took three long weeks to track him down to Volgograd. Chekov was, unsurprisingly for a krokodil dealer, lodging in the shittiest part of the city, so instead of running around the nicer parts of the city, Kirill had to trawl through the largest slum, which sprawled on on the far outskirts of Volgograd. It was all narrow, dirty streets and multi-family housing made out of already tiny post-Soviet boxes. It stank of soul grinding desperation.  
  
  
Two days into his stay, Kirill finally spotted Chekov. He was perched on a frail-looking yard fence and smoking a cigarette while talking with an Asian man dressed in red, who was leaning against the fence opposite from the blond. Chekov looked around casually, hopped down, hiking up his jeans upon landing and straightening his tanktop, and strutted down the street away from Kirill with the Asian; Kirill began wondering if he'd been spotted. He'd been careful, disposing of people he'd interrogated in the most natural way for krokodil addicts to go, so he didn't think so. On the other hand, he'd also been sure he'd killed Bourne and been very wrong.  
He parked the shitty car he'd rented and followed Chekov and his companion at a discreet distance.  
  
The thing about the Krokodil's men is that they didn't look like addicts at all - Chekov, for example, was sharp, clear eyed, clean, and looked relatively healthy. The word was that this was because the Krokodil himself strictly forbade his dealers from using any kind of krokodil, much less white krokodil, which was the variety they sold. It was supposedly even more powerful than the regular sort and on average, killed users within eighteen months instead of two or three years like regular krokodil.  
  
Chekov and friend strolled into a post-Soviet box someone called home and Kirill kept walking, circling the block and heading back to the rental. It was a piece of shit, so it should still be there.  
  
  
  
Over the next few days, he checked on Chekov's location and only sighting him twice, both times with the Asian man, which was very annoying. Kirill would prefer not to have to deal with him, because the fewer people who were aware of his activities, the better. Seriously injuring or killing the man might raise red flags and combined with the handful of deaths he'd caused earlier, it could tip off the Krokodil and cause him to flee back to the United States, which was the last goddamn thing Kirill needed. It would be easy to get him labeled as a terrorist and therefore he could be targeted or eventually brought back, but the Americans were unwilling to extraditing criminals to Russia (actually, the Krokodil would probably end up working for the CIA in South America if he got back to the States) and Kirill himself didn't need to botch this case, too.  
  
On the seventh day of watching Chekov, Kirill slipped into the flat. It was late, but the man was here and Kirill methodically cleared the few rooms - the kitchen, main living room, bath, and the bedroom. He was in the last, of course, and the flat was empty aside from the small blond man peacefully asleep on a ratty mattress. Considering the obscene profit the Krokodil was making off the drug, Kirill might have thought he'd pay his lackeys well enough to afford a better place to live.  
  
Chekov rolled over on his belly with a murmur and a snuffle, and very little more could have suited Kirill's purposes better. He crept up to the bed and solidly planted his knee between the man's shoulder blades. Chekov awoke with a squawk and Kirill grabbed his hands before he could do something inconvenient like grab a weapon. Easily zip tying the blond's hands together, Kirill dropped them and flipped him on his back, ignoring the pained noise his captive made. "Where is the Krokodil?" he hissed at Chekov.  
  
Chekov laughed - _laughed_   - at him. "Like I would know." He snickered. "Or tell you if I did, _ment_."  
  
Kirill picked Chekov up by the shoulders and slammed him down, shifting so he could put his knee on the man's stomach. "Where is the Krokodil?" he enunciated slowly.  
  
The blond smirked. "I'm just a lowly dealer," he replied. "Why," he wheezed a little as the weight on his diaphragm increased, "would I know?"  
  
Leaning down, Kirill said. "Stop lying; it's in your best interest to tell me." He pressed more heavily on his captive to emphasize his point.  
  
Breathing as shallowly as possible, the other man studied him with shrewd eyes. "Six hundred thousand rubles and my freedom, and I'll help you where to find the Krokodil," he bargained, giving up the pretense of ignorance.  
  
"Tell me or I'll kill you," Kirill said, reaching for the gun tucked down the back of his pants. He pressed the barrel against Chekov's forehead. "No one will think twice about a dealer being shot in his bed."  
  
"The Krokodil will find you," Chekov replied, ignoring the gun and meeting his eyes.  
  
Kirill raised an eyebrow. "Who is closer right now; me or your employer?"  
  
Chekov grinned, all teeth. "How does it feel, being my equal? Because you're an agent of someone else, just like me. I might belong to the Krokodil, but you belong to Nero."  
  
Slamming the butt of the gun against Chekov's head, Kirill leaned in again, allowing his full weight to rest on the smaller man's belly. "Lead me to him," he hissed when Chekov's eyes cleared.  
  
The blond bared his teeth at Kirill again and gave a breathy laugh. "Sure," he said between gasps. "Fine, I'll lead you to the Krokodil. And smile when he kills you."  
  
Kirill elected to ignore the last. "Lead me astray and it won't be a clean death," he replied, suspicious as he left off. He kept his gun trained on Chekov as the man took a deep breath. "Come on," he urged. "Get moving!"  
  
Chekov smirked. "All right, all right," he said, mock soothing Kirill's impatience, and sat up. He paused for a second, possibly waiting for his head to clear, and he didn't resist when he was bodily hauled upright and dragged out of the flat.  
  
Kirill shoved Chekov into the car, still tied up, and slid into the driver's seat. "Where?"  
  
"He's in Belarus," Chekov said with a smug look.  
  
Utterly unimpressed, Kirill gave him a disdainful look. As if international borders meant much to the FSB in Eastern Europe. "What city?"  
  
Chekov pursed his lips and answered, "Minsk."  
  
Fuck. Flying was out of the question and the car was not up to a nine-hour drive; he'd have to get a better one.  
  
It took an hour of Chekov's smug silence to navigate Volgograd to reach reach the better part of the city, where he started looking for a car to steal; it was too late at night to properly return the one he had, so he'd simply leave it parked somewhere and take a new one instead. His superiors would not be happy, but he didn't particularly care. It was a small mess but one he was perfectly willing to leave for them to clean up. Eventually, he settled on Lada Proria sedan. Not the kind of car he would prefer, but one that wouldn't draw excess attention; he'd relearned a few lessons from the Bourne debacle, among which was 'drive a car suitable for the mission, you fucking idiot.'  
  
Kirill looked over at Chekov, who was still smirking. "Stay here."  
  
The blond gave him an amused look and wiggled his upper arms, emphasizing the fact that he was still tied up and for all intents and purposes unable to escape. Resisting the urge to roll his eyes, Kirill wondered why he was putting up with this smirking shit from Chekov. He must be loosing his touch, he thought irritably as he climbed out of the car and into the summer night.


End file.
